


The Cowboy at the Bar (Sam/Dean) NC17

by lucian



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Barebacking, M/M, Sibling Incest, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:08:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucian/pseuds/lucian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barfights and sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cowboy at the Bar (Sam/Dean) NC17

FICLET: The Cowboy at the Bar  
Characters: Sam/Dean  
Rating: FRAO  
Summary: Barfights and sex.  
Warnings: Boysex. Flirty!Sam/jealous!Dean. First time.  
Word Count: 3800

 

It doesn't bother him that Sam flirts or that Sam fucks - he has a dick, after all, and those things are notoriously demanding. It doesn't even particularly bother him that sometimes Sam disappears with a guy. They don't talk about it, and, denial or not, Dean prefers to think that the guy takes him to a better bar with hotter chicks. It happens so infrequently that Dean's happy to stay behind and hustle pool. Besides, if it was a bar full of hot chicks, the big bad men with a need to prove themselves would all be up at the bar beside tits that don't fit in the tops they've been stuffed into, and Dean wouldn't make any money to drink away.

 

Tonight, Sam's at the edge of the bar: far enough away to not be noticed, but close enough to back Dean up if anyone starts throwing punches. If he finds a girl, Sam'll catch Dean's eye with a tip of his head toward the pretty thing and then Dean will finish the game and spend a couple of hours flirting with the waitress: enough time for Sammy to get his groove on, off, and out of the motel room.

 

Dean will wait for Sammy's "I'm done fucking" text no matter what: they developed _that_ rule the night that Sammy went into his third hour and Dean got an eyeful of Sam's desperately thrusting ass between long legs and pink argyle socks.

 

Dean knows that he can take care of himself, but there's a reason four eyes are better than two: distractions happen, especially when alcohol is involved. 

 

Tonight Dean notices that the bar is full: enough so that Sammy is crushed up against the wall beside some guy in a sheepskin-edged leather coat, and if that doesn't scream Brokeback Mountain, Dean doesn't know what does (though he'll never admit to having watched it late one night when Sammy texted him that he'd be spending the night with someone he met at the library. Dean also won't admit that he cried like a goddamned little girl and drank his way through the second half of the movie - not because it was available, but because he fucking _needed a drink_ after all that shit).

 

He keeps an eye on Sammy like Sammy always keeps an eye on him, except Sammy's thoroughly engaged in some deep conversation with Ennis the Cowboy, and what the hell's _that_ all about, anyway? Not that Dean cares, except maybe Ennis is ruining his idea of Sam wandering off to find an awesome bar and a gorgeous girl.

 

Ennis lights a cigarette because they're in some backwater, podunk town that hasn't banned indoor smoking yet (although Dean appreciates that because he likes to have a cigar with his whiskey from time to time), but it's when Sam, smiling, accepts a cigarette out of the proffered pack that Dean starts to growl deep in his throat.

 

Sammy doesn't smoke. Sammy's _never_ smoked, except maybe at Stanford, but Dean never thought to ask. It's not like there's a checklist of stupid crap you have to do at college - then again, that's the definition of college, but that's not the point: the point is that now Sammy isn't just smoking, he's forgotten how to drink from a bottle like a normal person: he's got half the neck in his mouth and Dean can almost hear the popping sound it makes as his lips slide off of it. Ennis is watching with wide, wide eyes.

 

Dean's eyes narrow into dangerous slits.

 

It's when Sammy smiles up at Ennis from under that long hair - shy and endearing - and monkeyfucks a light from the asshole's red-hot cigarette that Dean starts to get pissed off. That's not a "let's get drunk and tell war stories" smile, that's not a "let's piss off the Sheriff" smile, that's not even a "congratulations on the harrowing sheep drive" smile.

 

That's a "fuck me 'til I don't know my own name" smile, and Dean's fucking had enough.

 

And besides, didn't the asshole have a fucking lighter? Jesus.

 

He sends two balls shooting off the end of the table before he throws up his hands and stalks away, followed by the laughter of people who think he can't hold his liquor.

 

He doesn't particularly care what they think. He cares that Sam's fingers aren't remotely awkward around his cigarette; in fact, they're lithe and graceful and comfortable with the cigarette and a beer bottle in the same hand. He flicks the ashes absentmindedly while he listens to Ennis and smiles like a damned schoolgirl; he never looks down once, but he hits the ashtray every time.

 

And the bar may be crowded, but that doesn't excuse the asshole's knee from being almost all the way up in Sam's crotch, or how his mouth almost touches Sam's ear when he says something that makes Sam throw his head back and laugh in a way that Dean would kill to see again.

 

Dean slams his empty beer bottle down between the two of them and snarls, "Why don't you just bend him over the bar and fuck him right here in front of everybody?"

 

"What the fuck is _your_ problem?" Sam hisses, his eyes angry in a way he hasn't directed at Dean for a while now.

 

"I lost the game!" he snarls, and it isn't the goddamned truth but it doesn't matter, because aren't they both pathological liars by now?

 

"So fucking what?" Sam snaps back, one hand suddenly white-knuckled around his beer, the other holding his cigarette at the end of three sharp fingers like a drag queen about to put it out in some catty cunt's eye. His truly epic bitchface is enough to make Dean briefly wonder how Sam would look in Blowjob Red lipstick.

 

His fury ratchets up another notch while he wonders where _that_ thought came from.

 

Ennis is smart enough to keep his mouth shut while Dean's jammed up between them, but he doesn't move his knee and he doesn't back off and he doesn't apologize, and suddenly Ennis wisely shutting the hell up is pissing Dean off just as badly as the man thinking he had any right to talk to Sam in the first place.

 

Which he didn't.

 

"Don't you have somewhere else to be, Marlboro Man?" Dean snaps over his shoulder.

 

"Well, I reckon I did," Ennis says, and his whiskey-rough voice is straight off the Silver-fucking-Screen. Dean resists bashing his head against the bar, because goddamned if he can blame Sammy for getting sucked in by that liquid Southern drawl - but then Ennis has the brass balls to add, "In fact, if you'll kindly step aside, I believe I still do."

 

And that's approximately when Dean's elbow connects with Brokeback Asshole's rugged good looks for fucking up his perfectly pleasant evening hustle.

 

The bar promptly explodes.

 

Dean _did_ manage to break Marlboro Man's nose, and he takes no small amount of pride in it as they scramble to get out of the bar before the Sheriff and his posse show up. He wouldn't say that Sam dragged him out, precisely, but Sam was in front of him the whole way and might have had his hand very tightly wrapped in Dean's shirt, though everything was pretty chaotic so Dean is probably misremembering.

 

After they get outside, they run right past the motel and loop around back to lose the couple of stragglers who started to give chase. Twenty years of training makes both Sam and Dean capable of doing nearly everything drunk - including stealth attacks with explosive violence that leave Dean stumble-flying into the motel room and taking the television with him to the floor.

 

Sam slams the door.

 

"What the motherfucking hell was _that_ all about?" Sam snarls, his eyes glittering dangerously in the flickering snow from the TV screen.

 

"You're supposed to do that shit somewhere _else_ , Sam!"

 

"You wouldn't have had a problem with tits and a miniskirt!"

 

"It's not about that!"

 

"Oh, really? It doesn't bother you that I was planning on getting fucked by a _guy_?"

 

"No!" Dean yells while his brain desperately tries to block the image of Sam spread wide, head thrown back in ecstasy, and he's extremely proud of how even his voice is. He hates that Sam is right: Dean wouldn't have gotten pissed off at Sam blowing a longneck for girl-tail, but if he admits that, Sam will think Dean's rejecting him and he is _not_ that kind of brother, goddammit, he _isn't_ , and just why the _hell_ couldn't Sam have left the bar with the guy an hour ago and saved them the cost of replacing the damn television?

 

"Oh, really? It wasn't? Because I can't, _for the life of me_ , figure out what the fuck else it could have been about."

 

Dean grits his teeth as he stands up. He doesn't even have a _flimsy_ excuse for starting this particular bar brawl. "I was drunk! I lost at pool! I told you that!"

 

Dean is startled by how quickly Sam crosses the room and how deadly he looks with the hurt and fury burning in his eyes.

 

Sam gets close enough to execute a rib-splintering three-inch-punch, but he doesn't; instead, he grabs a tight fistful of Dean's shirt and growls, "I never say anything about the constant stream of bar skanks that stink up our room with their gas station perfume. The least you could do is not start a bar fight on the rare occasion I need some cowboy to stick his dick so far up my ass that I can taste it."

 

Dean will swear for the rest of his life that the sound he makes right then is only shock at his baby brother's bluntness, but that doesn't explain why his legs suddenly feel weak or why his eyes won't focus or why Sam is smirking at him.

 

Sam trails his fingers down the flat stomach exposed by Dean's rucked up shirt, plays with his belt buckle, then slides his hot hand around the bulge in Dean's jeans.

 

"Holy shit!" Dean hisses, unaware until this very moment of why it was that half the whiskey he drank during That Stupid Cowboy Movie was not because the _movie_ was sad, but because _he_ was, and damned if he could figure out _why_.

 

He's starting to think he might understand.

 

Sam snorts in that arrogant, dismissive, sexy-as-all-fuck way he has and presses his hips against Dean's. Dean's slick lips fall open but no sound comes out: the feel of Sam's answering hardness has erased his ability to think.

 

"You meant it, didn't you?" Sam asks against his mouth; so devastatingly close but not quite touching. "You didn't care that it was a _guy_ ; you cared that it was some _other_ guy."

 

Sam's eyes are fucking _supernovas_ , boiling like the sun crashing into the ocean, and Dean doesn't know how he never really saw them all these years. He doesn't know how long this desperate need has been clawing under his skin and searing through his veins (it has to have been _always_ for as badly as it burns), and it's going to kill him if he doesn't drag Sam inside his skin right this fucking second.

 

Suddenly he feels like Baby: zero to sixty in four-point-five, but going from straight and narrow to needing to fuck your baby brother as badly as you need to breathe has to be more like zero to one-twenty in point-six-five, and he's going to melt his engine and incinerate his body and fuck if it isn't going to be an explosion worthy of a summer action flick, and _god_ \- it will be completely and utterly worth the apocalyptic carnage.

 

He grips Sammy's waist hard enough to bruise and yanks him in for a kiss that's all teeth and tongue and fire, and Sammy's laughing deep in his throat even as he kisses back with the desperation of a dying man.

 

Sammy shoves him up against the wall with a thrust of his hips, and feeling Sam's big, hard dick against his own is better than all the small, soft chicks he's ever fucked. He only has a second to wonder why he ever bothered with them before Sam is sliding his tongue along the straining tendon in Dean's neck and unfastening his belt.

 

Sammy's clever hand is hot as hell as it grabs and slides and skids over Dean's dick, and Dean decides that his time in the Pit was pre-emptive punishment for all the things they're about to do, and, for the love of all that's holy, it's going to be worth every fucking second.

 

"Off, Sammy; please, god, off-" he says, fingers fumbling with the buttons on Sam's shirt before taking two big handfuls and ripping it apart.

 

"Fucking Neanderthal," Sam growls, but he pulls Dean's shirt over his head in one quick movement and latches on to Dean's tattoo (the teeth-cracking pain of an hour under the needle was a tiny price to pay for the feeling of Sam's hot, wet tongue there now), and he suddenly and desperately needs to know how Sam's tongue will feel everywhere else.

 

 _"Shit,"_ Dean whimpers as he has marginally better luck with Sam's belt than he did with Sam's buttons, and sucks in a sharp breath because goddamn if Sam isn't a moose _everywhere_. He'd spare a second to be insecure about it, but Sam chooses that moment to say, "Christ, Dean, I need to suck your cock," and falls to his knees like he's kneeling before God and wraps his swollen lips around Dean's dick.

 

It's when Sam moans and his eyes flutter shut that Dean grasps desperately at the wall in an attempt to find something that will ground him, because the utter surreality of this moment is making him feel like he's going to spin away into blackness.

 

Not that Dean would _ever_ faint from sex (he's not a fucking _chick_ ), but this isn't sex: this is what sex dreams of being when it cries itself to sleep at night. This sex on cocaine, sex on fucking _demon blood_ , and god, if this is how Sam felt every day, then Dean owes him a very big fucking apology.

 

" _Ohgod, don'tmakemecome_ ," he whimpers desperately, and Sammy pulls back, smirking, and asks, "What - you _don't_ want to come down my throat?"

 

Dean grabs two fistfuls of Sam's ridiculously silky fucking hair and feels utterly broken. "Yes! Oh god, yes, but not now, Christ, not yet!"

 

"How do you want to come?" Sam asks with a devilish smile as he stands, all long limbs and liquid grace, even with his cock jutting out of his jeans.

 

Sam leans forward, licks Dean's ear, and whispers, "Tell me, big brother. Tell me how you want to come."

 

"Oh god, Sammy," Dean says breathlessly, and since Sammy can't see his face - see his shame - he blurts out: "Inside you, Sammy. I want to be deep in your ass when I come."

 

Sam groans into Dean's neck, his body shaking with need, then pulls back to drop his pants and kick off his shoes. Dean is still in shock against the wall when Sam leans back on the bed, knees spread wide, and says, "Come fuck me, big brother."

 

Dean is _so_ going to hell for thinking that's the hottest thing he's ever heard. He's going to the _Ninth Circle_ for what he's about to _do_.

 

Dean crawls onto the bed, up between Sam's legs, and nestles their cocks together. Sam wraps his muscular thighs around Dean's waist and Sam moans and drags him down into a kiss as he thrusts up and _fuck_ \- his cock is rubbing against his baby brother's dick and if Sam doesn't stop moaning into his mouth, he's gonna come all over Sam's stomach.

 

"Keep it up and I'm not gonna last," he growls.

 

"Fuck, me too," Sam says, blushing and breathless, and unhooks his ankles. "You ready?"

 

Dean's eyes might be a little wide, but he takes the lube from the nightstand and slides back down the sharp ridges of Sam's hard body. When he slides his tongue down Sammy's cock, Sam nearly arches off the bed and lets out a cry that makes Dean press the heel of his hand against his dick to ward off coming just from the sounds Sammy makes.

 

Sam slides a pillow under his hips and lets his knees fall open; his eyes so full of lust and trust that Dean feels like he might shatter under the weight of it. Dean takes a deep breath, decisively pops the cap on the lube, and squeezes quite a bit on his fingers.

 

"One at a time," Sam whispers, and Dean is suddenly glad that one of them has done this before so he doesn't fuck it up.

 

Dean's amazed at how vulnerable one tight little patch of skin can look. He's doubly amazed that Sammy - _his_ Sammy - could ever let some stranger from some dive bar do this to him. He's suddenly angry that Sam has ever had to take that risk, but shoves it down when Sam's wide, certain eyes tell him it will never happen again. 

 

Sam makes little desperate noises as Dean traces circles around the tight furl, but when he finally presses inside, Sam lets out a broken sob. Dean knows what Sammy sounds like when he's really in pain, so he keeps pressing in, all the way up until his finger disappears entirely into his baby brother's hole, and isn't _that_ the most fucked up and goddammed hottest thing ever?

 

Sam's whispering things Dean can't make out, but by the way he's fucking back onto Dean's hand, he figures he doesn't need to. Sam's slick and hot and tight and so fucking gorgeous that it would make Dean's heart stop if he was a girl, but he isn't, so he attributes the thudding in his chest to all the blood-thickening alcohol at the bar.

 

" _God_ , Dean - more, _please_ ," and Sammy's looking at him with unfocused, glazed eyes; his hands knotted white in the sheets. If this is how Sammy looks after just one finger, Dean's gonna be a two-stroke joke when he sticks his cock in that tight fucking heaven. 

 

When he pulls out his finger to add more lube, Sam lets out a keening cry, and when he replaces it with two, Sam lets out a rumbling moan and his dick starts leaking. Dean twists his fingers and presses up (because Dean remembers weird shit, not because he ever looked it up or anything), and Sam _does_ come off the bed this time; only his shoulders and heels touching as though he's possessed. 

 

"Oh fucking _Christ_ ; god, Dean, _yes_ \- please, god please, I'm ready! Fuck me - for the love of god, _fuck me!_ "

 

That's all Dean wants in the entire fucking world, but he says, "I don't want to hurt you-"

 

Sam gives him the poutiest bitchface in his arsenal and says, "If you don't shove your cock up my ass right now, I'm going to punch you in the fucking face."

 

The fear that Dean's gonna screw this up even _with_ Sam's guidance falls away as he laughs, and then Sam kisses him desperately, grabs Dean's cock, and lines it up with his slick and open hole.

 

When Dean slides his dick so, _so_ slowly into that raging furnace, Sam makes a sound like he's dying.

 

Every perfect moment of Dean's life flashes through his mind as he falls into Sammy's broken eyes, and it's Sammy at the center of every goddammed one: every memory that makes his past bearable revolves around little Sammy eating ice cream, young Sammy sleeping in the back seat, adult Sammy fighting at his side.

 

And finally, Sammy spread out beneath him, making sounds that make Dean tremble.

 

"Oh god, Dean, _please_ ," Sammy cries, and Dean hooks Sam's knees over his elbows before picking up the pace, slamming into Sammy so hard that he's damned sure the bed is going to bash a hole clear through the wall. Sammy's howling every time Dean strikes that tender spot inside of him, but now it's _Sammy_ that's holding on hard enough to bruise, rocking back against Dean with equal force, sweat sliding down into his hair as he begs desperately, breathlessly, for nothing and everything.

 

"Oh god _oh god OH GOD_ -" Sam gasps as his movements become erratic, and when Dean looks him straight in the eye and growls, "Come for me, baby boy", Sam explodes, nails digging so deep into Dean's back that they're going to leave scars.

 

The thought of being marked by Sam for the rest of his life might have knocked him over the edge all on its own, but it's watching Sam shatter beneath him that drags him down, spilling his soul while Sam licks his mouth open and pulls him as deep inside as he can.

 

They're breathing in great gasps of air like they've just killed a monster and Dean is trying not to crush him but Sam is holding fucking tight enough to break ribs and _Jesus_ \- he just fucked his baby brother through the mattress and he seriously does _not_ give a flying fuck about the consequences right now, not when Sam is still tight and slick around him and there's a desperate little sound in Sammy's throat every time he exhales.

 

When the world feels like it's stopped trying to shake itself to pieces, Dean slides slowly out of Sam (and fucking hell if that isn't almost as good as sliding in) and falls back on the bed. He can't close his eyes because he's still riding the same adrenaline rush he feels after every successful hunt: he's won the desperate battle against incredible odds and come out not only alive but victorious, and goddamn if he couldn't take out all the hosts of heaven and hordes of hell while he has an hour to kill before dinner.

 

"You know," Sammy says into Dean's post-orgasmic high, "when I said I wanted a dick so far up my ass that I could taste it? I wasn't being literal."

 

It takes a minute to hear everything that Sam has just said:

 

_I want you to fuck me again._  
_I'm not going anywhere._  
_Fuck what anyone else thinks._

 

And because Dean's not a goddamned chick, he doesn't cry or talk about how he's feeling or any of that crap. So if he remembers holding hands with Sammy in the darkness afterward, well, he'd just had the best sex of his life, so he's probably misremembering.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I drank and cried through Brokeback Mountain. I can't even. Jesus Christ.


End file.
